Where's The Beach?

WHERE’S THE BEACH?

I had been saving for months so that I could afford to rent the quaint little beach cottage that I had seen in the brochure. I would drool over the photos of the charming cottage framed by peaceful beaches and glorious sunsets. They beckoned me to this little refuge, this peaceful sanctuary, this ethereal respite far from the turbulence of my daily grind. I savored the visions of pristine beaches, sparkling sand, and soft blue-green waves that danced in my mind. I could almost hear the romantic crooning of the ship’s horn that drifted mistily on the far horizon. Each time I daydreamed I could smell the crisp salty air and the earthy fragrance of the dunes.

The brochures boasted of fresh, butter-bathed lobsters and golden-fried haddock. My mouth watered in eager anticipation of the steaming clams delivered fresh from their cauldrons of seaweed and boiling saltwater. I couldn’t wait to taste those sweet rich scallops and delicate pink shrimps. I’d close my eyes and picture myself leisurely dining at an outdoor table overlooking the ocean. I could hear the thundering surf pounding the sharpness from the rocky crags. Gulls and terns contributed their own shrill notes to this symphony of the sea.

February was long and dreary. Cabin fever had set in, and even my co-workers were cranky and hostile. The confinement of winter was wearing on my nerves as well. Whenever the doldrums overtook me I’d simply allow my mind to drift off to the shorefront cottage that I’d reserved for the entire last week of July. Almost instantly the winter blues would melt dreamily away.

This tactic carried me through the frustrations of March and April. By May I was becoming impatient, and my nerves were as frazzled as golden curls after a failed home perm. By mid-June I was counting down the days on my calendar. By July 4th I was making lists and starting to pack sunscreen and sandals, over-sized beach mats, and anything else that would help me to rush the clock. And finally, after what seemed a double eternity, the day of departure rolled around.

I was quivering with excitement as I tossed the last suitcase into the back of my car. I made one last check; radio, tanning lotion, sunglasses, money for tolls, and an extra bottle of water. Yes, I was on my way to one full week of total rest and relaxation! In three hours or so I’d be pulling up in front of my quiet little cottage tucked cozily away in some secluded little cove.

After four hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic in the northbound lanes of the Interstate, my eyes finally feasted on that beloved sight…”Welcome to Maine, The Way Life Should Be”. I knew it was another forty miles or so, but in less than an hour I should be snuggling into the deck chair outside my cottage. I hummed along with the radio as I drove past exit 3, then exit 4, and at last swung onto the off ramp at the Saco exit. The sign said, “Old Orchard Beach 3 mi.” as I made the left hand turn onto ME-5. What it didn’t say was that it was going to take me over an hour to drive that short distance in the stop and go traffic!

As I crept along in traffic, I consulted the handwritten directions that I’d copied from my reservation confirmation. Adelaide, Milliken, Bradbury, and Staples Street: each narrow side street appeared on my page. I must have made some horrible mistake, though, because this looked more like a metropolitan parking lot than a restful seaside resort. As I desperately searched for a chance to pull to the curb, I spotted it…21 Portland Ave…the address on my dream cottage reservation. My heart sank.

Desperately I tried to find some flaw in the address flaking off the hazy glass entry door. Unfortunately it was a perfect match. With a dejected sigh, I shuffled up to the registration desk and confirmed my reservation. Grasping the worn blue key fob in hand, I carried my luggage through the narrow alley and located my ‘bungalow’. Each tiny-Siamese-cell bore duplicate cheap adornments meant to imitate luxurious cottages. The photographer had done some miraculous editing, but this was indeed the same cottage-front that I had seen in the brochure. I stopped, took a deep breath, and courageously tried to remain optimistic.

I tried to keep the negative vibes at bay as I unpacked and placed my belongings around the dark, impersonal room. The faded, stamp-sized carpet harbored odors of cigarettes and musty towels. Even the Lysol-scented tiles couldn’t camouflage the cracked and yellowed porcelain tub. But the bed linen was fresh, the mattress didn’t sag, and the air conditioner worked. I was good at finding the positive things in life. And besides, there were the beaches, ocean, and restaurants yet to explore.

I grabbed my sunglasses, beach towel and sunscreen. It had been an exhausting drive, and a couple of hours on a quiet beach would calm my nerves and rejuvenate my spirits. The hot humid air of a late July afternoon exploded in my face as I stepped out onto the microscopic balcony. I nearly fainted into the flimsy white plastic chair as I scanned my surroundings.

Where were the pristine beaches sparkling with sun and sand that I had so eagerly anticipated? Instead, all I could see was a vast plain of mounded sweaty flesh, bulging in spandex and terrycloth. Instead of my eyes rejoicing to the vision of soft blue-green waves lathered in icy foam, I was visually accosted with the glare of vibrantly clashing colors in assorted prints, stripes, and dancing neon geometrics. The only ‘waves’ I could see looked more like the waves of nausea experienced by someone who has devoured a box of crayons and regurgitated them onto the beach!

The crisp salty air and earthy fragrance of the dunes was completely blanketed by odors of stale grease, burning pizza, and the obnoxious exhaust fumes from the encroaching congested parking lots. The acrid smells of heavy perfumes, musky incense, stale beer, and grease-laden foods of indistinguishable origin burned my lungs. Even the pungent odor of the seaweed baking slowly in the stagnant pools was preferable to the smells of sweat-soaked spandex, vinegar-laced fries, and stale popcorn that wafted up from the chaos below.

The romantic crooning of a ship’s horn was lost in the bellowing of hawkers proclaiming their wares of fast foods, sleazy souvenirs and treacherously rickety carnival rides. The sounds of the gentle waves washing onto the littered shore disappeared in the deafening murmur of multi-lingual conversations. Even the thunderous crashing of angry waves breaking on the rocky crags was overpowered by the raucous blending of bar room bands and tourists’ boom boxes. Gulls cried and terns chirped in vain amid the symphony of screaming brats and drunken rowdies.

I peered down at the tables of the outdoor restaurants below. Patrons juggled large paper platters filled with some conglomeration of mutilated crustacea that had been swimming in a community vat of stale fryolator oils. The sweet rich scallops and steamy clams yielded their subtle fragrances to the overbearing odors of ‘hamdogs’ and ‘hotburgers’. These “kids plate” specials, cooked side by side on blackened grills, produced flavors so melded that only their shape could accurately identify their species. Instead of clear salty air, my nostrils were filled with dusty clouds from the sodium chloride piled high onto dinner plates to mask the taste of the fat-soaked fare.

I sank weakly into the wobbly deck chair, my head bowing heavily into my hands. Eyes closed, shoulders sagging, I reluctantly accepted the dismal realities of my ‘dream vacation’. I wallowed in my defeat for another few agonizing moments, then rose, guided the worn silver key into the tarnished gold lock, and silently stepped back into my room. I turned and wearily closed the door behind me. As I stood there with my back pressed against the gray steel door, my eyes adjusting to the dismal gloom inside, I vowed that next year I would buy a screen saver for my computer and spend my vacation in “virtual” paradise.